A Sherlock Carol
by Arlothia
Summary: Sherlock had never read nor seen 'A Christmas Carol' and John uses it to his advantage. Obligatory Christmas fic! R&R please...


11

"John, I really don't see the point in all this."

Sherlock was sitting in his favorite chair trying to think as John proceeded to erect the fake evergreen tree in a corner of the flat he had had to clear of one of Sherlock's less volatile experiments.

"It's Christmas, Sherlock! Everyone celebrates Christmas."

"Well I'm not everyone as you rightly know. I do not see the point in filling our flat with useless, silly décor that will only come down after a few weeks."

But you do see the point in littering the flat with all your various and combustible potions?"

"They're experiments, John. If I didn't have them what would you exp3ect me to do when I'm not on a case?"

"I can think of loads of things."

"Such as?"

"Read a book. Watch telly. Go out and _not_ harass people!"

"That man in the red suit was asking for it. What sort of grown man stands by a shop entrance wearing an alarmingly fake beard, further bringing attention to himself by ringing that obnoxious bell?"

"He was in a Santa suit ringing for charity, Sherlock!"

"Well I think I committed an act of charity when I stopped the ringing."

"You threw the bell in to the street as a double-decker bus rolled by!"

"It was quite opportune, wasn't it?"

John could only shake his head. "You're unbelievable, you know that?"

"As you've told me on countless occasions."

"All for good reason." John looked in the box that held the lights for the tree. They were a complete mess. The Gordian Knot would have been easier. "I don't suppose you know how to untangle all these lights, do you?"

Sherlock, without answering or even looking at John, got up and went into the kitchen. John heard some rustling and had the brief hope that maybe he did have the solution. But when Sherlock re-entered the room his hopes were dashed. Sherlock was holding a large pair of kitchen sheers.

"Oh no you don't!" John yelled and stepped in Sherlock's way as he came towards the box.

"You asked for a solution," Sherlock said matter-of-factly.

"That _won't_ destroy the lights!" He took the scissors from Sherlock's hands and put them on the desk. "You know what? I'll finish this later. I'm going to pop over to Sarah's."

When he returned from fetching his coat, Sherlock was back in his chair, tuning his violin. "Looks like I'm not leaving a moment too soon," John mumbled to himself. Then louder, "Don't even think about touching those lights."

"I promise." John gave him a skeptical look. "I'm a man of my word, John."

"That's what scares me." But he walked out the door anyway.

Not half an hour later John received a frantic call from Mrs. Hudson saying that she smelled smoke coming from 221B. His time with Sarah was cut short.

"Sherlock!" John yelled, more accusatory than concerned, as he bounded up the steps to their flat. He started to cough as the smoke from the open door reached his nose. It was sickening. "If you've touched those lights-" but through the smoke he could see the box right where he had left it.

"I'm a man of my word, John!" Sherlock yelled from the kitchen. John put the collar of his jacket to his nose and braved the smoke that was coming from the small kitchen area. Blinking back tears that were streaming from his smoke-filled eyes, John could see the tall from of Sherlock standing by a larger shape: the source of the smoke. "Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?"

"Experimenting, obviously, John."

"Wait…is that the tree?" John took a quick look into the living area. Sure enough, the tree was no longer in the corner. He looked back to what was now the tree. It was in such a sorry state that it was barely recognizable as a skeleton of the tree. All the needles had melted off and only the metal frame was left.

"Quite correct. Or rather it was."

"What did you do to it?" John reached for the fire extinguisher. "And why aren't the smoke alarms going off?" He proceeded to spray down the 'tree'.

"I turned off all the alarms on this floor and the next."

"How-? Never mind. Please continue." John was getting a headache.

"As I'm sure you know, most people have a variety of backed and fried goods for their Christmas dinner and the fire department receives numerous calls about house fires, usually revolving around the kitchen, tree, or both."

"How do you know what most people do?"

"Before this experiment I decided to try your idea about watching the telly. It was a combination of a cooking show and a fire safety commercial that actually spurred this experiment."

"I knew it was a bad idea getting you into crap telly." But Sherlock continued, not hearing him.

"So I decided to test two experiments at once: how far oil from a bubbling pot will spray and how fast a polyester tree will catch fire."

"And why would you do this?"

"Isn't it obvious? No, of course not. To know the difference between arson and an accidental fire, John."

"And I don't suppose you could leave that to the fire department?"

Sherlock scoffed. "No, of course not. There are subtle differences that they wouldn't be able to see."

"I'm beginning to think that I've seen enough fires in this flat alone to distinguish the difference," John sighed. By now the smoke had subsided for the most part. John turned on the fan and opened the windows to let the last of it escape. "I'm going back to Sarah's. You better have this all cleaned up before I come back. And get another tree while you're at it!" John didn't wait for a response as he walked out the door, reassuring Mrs. Hudson on his way out that everything was alright now. He sure hoped he was right.

John couldn't believe how childish Sherlock was being about Christmas. Maybe those Christmas dinners Mycroft had mentioned were more detrimental than he'd thought. But Christmas ha always been John's favorite holiday and he hadn't had a decent one since before the war. He was determined to have a respectable Christmas this year and Sherlock wasn't going to much it up. John decided that the only way to stop all his shenanigans would be to go to war one last time; one more battle.

The ideas were already formulating in his mind and were making him smile. But he couldn't do it alone. He would need some help and he knew exactly who to ask

'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the flat, not a creature was stirring, not even Sherlock, which surprised even John. But it fit his plans…

Right as the clock struck midnight, Sherlock's sleep was suddenly interrupted by the rattling of chains.

Chains? Why were chains rattling in his room?

He turned over in bed and though he was dreaming. John was standing at the foot of his bed, ringing those blasted chains. Even more startling was John's appearance. He was dressed all in whites and grays and his face was painted white. It gave him the façade of being dead.

"John, what on earth are you doing? And why are you dressed like that?"

"Sherlock," John said. He looked straight ahead and spoke in a monotone voice. "You desecrated the spirit of Christmas."

"Oh please. You're still going on about the tree bit? It's all cleaned up and you have a tree, thanks to Mrs. Hudson."

John kept going. "Tonight you will be visited by three spirits. They will teach you to respect this holiday and not bother those who celebrate it."

"Oh let's spare us all the trouble and not. Now go back to bed." Sherlock turned over and put the covers over his head.

"The first will come at one o'clock. The second at two o'clock."

"And let me guess: the third at three? You're predictable John, now let me sleep."

"Three spirits, Sherlock." John rang the chains again but when Sherlock pulled the covers from over his head to complain again, John was gone. He sighed heavily and went back to sleep.

One

Behind closed eyes, Sherlock suddenly saw an explosion of light. The lights had been turned on. Was it morning already? He blinked and opened his eyes, the brightness intruding against the comfortable black. It hurt.

When his eyes adjusted he found himself sitting at a dining room table that was filled with scrumptious, steaming food. But it wasn't just any dining table. It was his. Not anything he had at Bakerstreet; this was the table he had grown up with. He was at his home. But that was kilometers away. How did he get here?

"Ah. You're awake. Finally." Sherlock looked over at the seat next to him. Mycroft. He was in his regular attire: three piece suit, patronizing sneer, with his umbrella propped against the table.

Sherlock groaned. "What are you doing here, Mycroft? Or better yet, what am I doing here and how did I get dressed? I was just in bed."

"It's Christmas, Sherlock. We're home for Christmas dinner, obviously. And as for your cloths, I assume you put them on yourself. You're not that incompetent I trust."

"You're one to talk about incompetence. You hardly do anything yourself. And I am quite aware that this is Christmas dinner, but we haven't had Christmas dinner like this for years. And besides…" He stood up, gesturing around the room, confused. "It's morning! I just woke up a little bit ago when-" His eyes lit up. "John. This is his idea. You're trying to teach me a lesson. Well it's not going to work. I'm going to hail a taxi." He started to walk towards the door.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you. Mummy would be so displeased."

Sherlock turned around sharply. "You brought our mother into this?" He smirked. "You're desperate, aren't you?"

"No. Just not wasting time on less effective means. Now sit down. Mummy's about to bring out the ham."

"Forgive me if I don't stay for _breakfast_. I'll leave you to eat yourself into a stupor. And leave some for Mother. You know how her blood sugar is." He was about to walk out the door when another voice stopped him dead in his tracks.

"Oh, hello Sherlock! I was afraid you wouldn't be able to make it. I'm so glad you're here!"

Sherlock hung his head. There was no running now. He brought up his head, put on a smile, and turned around, extending his arms towards the woman. "Hello Mother."

Mrs. Holmes wasn't the kind of woman you would expect to be the mother of two masterminds such as Mycroft and Sherlock. She was a pleasant looking woman, the epitome of the grandmotherly figure. She was a full two heads shorter than her boys and was the shape of a long-time cook. Her grey and white hair was piled on top of her rosy face in a bun. All together there wasn't one trait she had given to her sons. She walked to Sherlock and into his outstretched arms. Her arms wrapped around his waist and he wrapped his around her shoulders.

"How are you doing dear? I hear you have a new flat mate."

"Yes, I have a new flat mate and I'm doing quite well. But you've just gotten over a cold, I see."

"Oh, goodness Sherlock! How do you know?"

"Your eyes…and the antibiotics in the trash."

Mrs. Holmes sighed. "Why am I still amazed at you when you've been doing this for years?"

Sherlock smiled. His voice held none of the sarcasm and scorn that it held for others. "It happens with everyone."

"Now sit down by your brother and I'll get the ham."

Sherlock held his smile until his mother disappeared behind the kitchen door. It was replaced by a frown as he turned to Mycroft. He walked and sat opposite him at the table. "This was a low blow, even for you. Why did you get Mother mixed in with this?"

Mycroft smiled coolly. "I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Oh spare me the innocence. If you were innocent then I'd be blond. This seems too devious for John so it has to be you. If you won't tell me why you're doing this then I'll just have to figure it out myself, and you know I can."

Mycroft smirked. "We'll see about that."

Just then, Mummy came in with the ham, all golden and steaming; it sent everyone's mouth watering.

"Here we are!" she said as she placed it on the center of the table and sat at her place at the end of the table.

"You've outdone yourself again, Mummy," Mycroft applauded.

"Oh you're just saying that," she waved the comment away, blushing. "I'm sure you've had better meals at those fancy restaurants you go to." That was another trait she didn't share with her sons: humility.

"Nothing bests a home-cooked meal," Sherlock offered.

Her blush deepened. "You boys are too nice to me. Now come. I'll say Grace." She held out her hands and Mycroft and Sherlock took their respective ones. They only let their fingertips touch, causing the least amount of contact. They all closed their eyes and bowed their heads.

"Our kind and dearest Heavenly Father, we thank Thee for this Christmas season where we can celebrate the glorious birth of Thy Son. We thank Thee for the wonderful and peaceful spirit this time of year brings into our homes. We are grateful that we are all here as a family and hope that we will enjoy each other's company." Sherlock tried to stifle a snicker and had his hand promptly squeezed by his mother, causing instant silence. "We thank Thee for the food that Thou hast blessed us to have. We ask that it will strengthen and nourish us. We ask that this will be an enjoyable evening and that Mycroft and Sherlock will travel to their homes in safety. Again, we thank Thee that we are all here together for one of the few chances we get. We say these things humbly in the name of They Son, Jesus Christ, amen."

"Amen," the men chorused.

"And now a toast," Mycroft announced. They raised their glasses of wine. "To Mummy's cooking."

"To family and the Christmas spirit," Mrs. Holmes added.

"Here, here," was all Sherlock could say. They all took a sip and started to eat. But Sherlock only had a few bites of his smashed potatoes. He looked at his mother. He rarely saw her so happy, especially at Christmas dinner. What was so different about today? He and Mycroft were acting somewhat civil, but things were just getting started. The evening was usually rather heated by the end of dinner. But Sherlock sensed none of that around the table. What was going on? What was Mycroft doing? He was up to something. He just had to figure out what.

Sherlock blinked slowly. He was tired. Why was he tired? He was actually rather content right now. He was warm, seated in a comfortable chair with the aroma of al the food wafting up to his nose. Yes, he was quite content. If only he could keep his eyes open…

Two

"Happy Christmas!"

Sherlock jolted awake. He found himself in a much different setting than where he had been. He was at the police office. How on earth had he gotten here? He had just been at his mother's house not a moment before.

He was seated in a chair along the wall while everyone around him was talking, eating, drinking, and laughing. The room was decorated lavishly with a large tree, garland, and the main lights were turned off so the room held a dim lighting with the strings of lights that were hung everywhere. An office Christmas party. He vaguely remembered getting an invitation for it and promptly using it for one of his experiments involving acid. He had had no intention of going and had no intention of staying.

As he made his way to the door a voice stopped him. "Not going to stay, Sherlock?"

He turned around. Lestrade sat where he had been, looking at him with an expectant look on his face.

Sherlock's shoulders slumped. "Not you too!"

"Not me too, what?" Lestrade asked, a smile on his face that matched everyone else's in the room. So full of Christmas cheer it was enough to make Sherlock sick.

"What am I doing here? First I was asleep in my bed, then at a Christmas dinner, and now at this absurdly dull party."

"Oh I wouldn't say it's dull. Everyone seems to be having a good time, except you."

"Well I'm not everyone else and these people are easily entertained. Did my brother put you pt to this?"

Lestrade laughed. "Sherlock, let it go! You're at a party. Just have fun like the rest of us."

"My idea of fun does not include wasting my time at a boring police function I never planned to go to in the first place with people whose limited intelligence will only diminish with each glass of spiked cider they drink. Now if you will excuse me?" He turned to go but Lestrade called him back again.

"You don't even want your present?"

Sherlock turned around again and way that Lestrade was holding a brightly wrapped gift. "Who's it from?" He took a step closer.

Lestrade shrugged. "No idea. It's a Secret Santa gift so that's the point. I'm sure you could figure it out, though." He handed the younger man the small box as he got closer. He took it gently, not wanting to disturb the slightest detail. He brought it close to his face, scanning it with his keen, pale-blue eyes. He started to analyze quietly to himself.

"Neatly wrapped, crisp edges on the folds, probably done at the store. Many stores gift wrap this time of year but only a high-end store would have paper of this quality. Judging by the size and weight it's a small, heavy object, most likely to be worn on the person. A new cell phone perhaps, although I have no need for one."

"Oh just open it, Sherlock, for pity's sake!"

Sherlock looked reproachful. "It's my present and I'll open it whenever I want." He stashed it in his pocket. "Do I have permission to leave?" he asked sarcastically.

"No. You have to stay for at least a few more minutes. Now come on. Eat something, deduce something about someone here, I don't care." He threw up his hands in resignation.

"You seem pretty confident that I won't leave. The doors are locked, aren't they?"

"You're the genius, you tell me." Lestrade walked over to join the rest of the party. Sherlock watched him go and surreptitiously checked the door. Locked. At least he was right, but for now he was trapped. There was no point in trying to pick the lock. Mycroft's men were probably right outside. So he went back to sit by the wall, waiting for the time to come when he would inevitably be shipped off to his next destination.

It was a long wait, or at least it seemed like forever to Sherlock. Time went infinitely slower when you were bored. Sherlock spent his time observing those at the party:

Father of two. Much younger wife. Does the cooking at home.

Engaged. Expecting first child. doesn't know it yet.

Would rather be at different party. Waiting for her ride to come get her. Just started the trumpet.

High tolerance for alcohol. Had five, no, six glasses of spiked cider already. Wife contemplating divorce.

Part-time teacher. Looking for higher position at the Yard. Doesn't like kids…

It was all so normal and boring. How could they stand it? There was nothing to challenge the mind, although he doubted any of them would be able to handle even an easy brain teaser. And they were starting to sing! Sherlock tried to plug his ears against the aggravating din but it was no use. So he tried distracting himself.

He took the present out of his pocket and observed it once more. Small, heavy, neat…He looked around at each person. Surely the person who gave him this would want to see his reaction when he opened it. But at the moment no one was paying any attention to him. He started to noisily undo the paper. He received a few glares but no lingering stares or repeated looks. Most likely his secret Santa wasn't here. Oh well. He would find out soon enough.

He removed the rest of the wrapping to reveal a box. It had no inscription on it but, like the paper, it was of good quality; a wooden box, in fact. It was made out of maple and had been furnished with a red glaze. And now the answer to the riddle…

Opening the box on its hinge revealed, nestled in white satin, a silver pocket watch with _'SH'_ anagrammed on the front. It was of very good make and in good taste. It wasn't too ornate or gaudy but also wasn't void of decoration. He quite liked it, actually.

Sherlock picked it up and pressed the button to lift the lid. There was another inscription: _'The Game Is On'_. How fitting. The back held no ornamentation but a simple design of leaves around the edge, like the front. It was obviously intended as a spot for another engraving but the gift-giver obviously wanted to remain anonymous. The only real clue he had to go on was the inscription. He said the phrase fairly often and many people had heard him say it. But the real question was who would be so thoughtful and generous with him? He angered so many people and annoyed the rest.

Sherlock had never expressed the desire to have a pocket watch and had actually never considered wanting one. But now that he had one he rather thought he fancied it. He put the fob through one of his button holes and slipped the time piece into his vest pocket. It sat there against his chest, the ticking reverberating through his body.

'_Silent night. Holy night_

'_All is calm. All is bright.'_

Sherlock started humming along softly while the officers sang the Christmas carol, the watch acting as a metronome. Since when did he hum? And why was the room becoming hazy? He guessed his third journey was about to begin.

Three

The first thing Sherlock registered was cold. He shivered and opened his eyes. He was lying face down on a cold stone floor. Why couldn't he wake up in a chair again?

He groaned and lifted himself off the floor. His body was stiff and sore from lying on the hard, cold stone.

The lighting was dim and artificial. He saw a spotlight. It seemed to be aimed right at him. As he stood and looked around his eyes fell to the floor next to where he had lain. He staggered back against the wall, eyes full of shock, breathing hard. Lying on the floor…was him. Sherlock couldn't make sense of it. He saw himself in front of him: his face, his hair, his cloths. He stepped forward tentatively and nudged this Sherlock with his toe. It didn't move. He checked the neck. Nothing. He was dead.

"Kind of scary, isn't it?" Sherlock whipped around. Anderson was leaning against the door frame in one of those blue jumpers and shoe covers like he was at a crime scene. Sherlock's crime scene.

"Anderson, what the hell is going on here?"

"I thought it was obvious: You're dead."

"Oh don't try to act witty. It just doesn't suit you. But how can I be dead? I'm right here!"

"You're a ghost, Sherlock. I guess your IQ drops when that happens." He smirked.

"Well, seeing how you're here with me, that must mean that you're a ghost, too. So you must have the IQ of a pencil now. No, I don't want to insult pencils. At least they can write."

"Alright, enough with the jokes. Aren't you going to figure out what happened to you?"

"Since when have you so easily handed a case over to me?"

"Sense I've already figured it out and it's your own body you're examining."

"You only think you've figured it out," Sherlock scoffed, but continued to kneel over his body, eyes picking up the smallest detail.

The body was lying face up. The cloths were askew and there were marks on his hands and neck. The lips were blue. Strangled. But there had to be something else. Sherlock checked his pockets. He found his wallet, magnifier, handkerchief, and his watch was still on his writs. Nothing seemed to be missing. Unless this Sherlock had had another foreign item with him that the attacker wanted. Or this was a simple act of violence. He did have so many enemies. He checked for any other wounds. It sent chills up his spine to be doing this to his own body. But he had to remind himself that this couldn't be his body. It was simply impossible. His search came up with nothing.

Then there were his surroundings:

They were in a windowless room about the size of Sherlock's kitchen area at the flat. The walls were unadorned and the ceiling held a light but there was no switch on the walls. So it must be outside, next to the door.

"Where are we?" Sherlock asked.

"Abandoned flat building. The schematics say this room is supposed to be the janitorial closet. It's set to be demolished soon.

"Hence why the body would be left here. There would be little chance of recovery after the charges were set and the body most likely vaporized by the blast. But the struggle took place here. The body wasn't dumped. So why was I here? Was I lured here? Was I on a case? I don't have one now. When is this supposed to be anyway? As far as I'm concerned it's still the very early morning of December 25th."

"December 27th."

"Holiday season; crime abounds. I suppose I'll be getting a call from Scotland Yard for Christmas giving me a case, if indeed I am really seeing the future, which I highly doubt."

"You're not the least put off that you might die in a couple of days?"

"Not in the slightest. In fact, now I can prepare for this," he gestured towards the corpse. "Judging by the marks on they body's neck, the attacker is a tall man, large hands, married, graduated from college, and searing a res suit-" He cut off, an epiphany alight in his eyes. "The Santa Claus," he whispered.

"What? What are you talking about?"

"The man is tall, taller than me. The prints on the neck are set at a downward angle. There are indents on two of the fingers. Left hand, third finger: wedding ring. Another on the right index finger. The only other ring a man would have reason to wear is a college ring.

"Under the body's finger nails are traces of a red fiber, not of very good quality so it probably came off the production line. The other day I upset a man in a Santa suit, subsequently throwing his bell under a bus. He must have over reacted."

"I think you both did, which doesn't surprise me about you, anyway."

Sherlock clapped his hands. "So! Do I get to go home now? I believe this is the third and final hour of my lesson."

Anderson looked at him, flabbergasted. "You aren't in the least upset about you lying dead right there?"

"No. Like I said, it's impossible. Ghosts aren't real so how can I be one?"

Anderson shook his head. "You really are a freak."

"So says the woman who scrubs your floors," Sherlock retorted with a wicked grin.

Anderson turned around and walked out of the closet, closing (and locking, Sherlock noticed by the click) the door behind him.

"Oh for pity's sake!" Sherlock complained. Like locking him in a room with a dead body was supposed to put him off. But he stared at the doppelganger at his feet. He would never admit this to Anderson, or anyone else for that matter, but seeing himself lying there, cold and lifeless, in supposedly two days time, did, in fact, frighten him somewhat. As he looked at the corpse's hands and face, the only skin that was visible, his eyes couldn't pick up the slightest flaw; not one deviation from his own features. It was scary, really. Maybe it was impossible but it was there.

He always thought he would die while chasing a lead on a case. He wasn't one to be brought down by disease or die in his sleep. But this was too soon and not the least how he wanted it all to end. Such a silly squabble to produce the end of Sherlock Holmes. Was this really the way it was going to end? It was a depressing thought.

"I won't let this happen," Sherlock whispered to himself. The weariness returned and Sherlock drifted off, too lost in his thoughts to even realize that he was asleep.

Christmas Morning

Sherlock rolled over, pulling the covers over his head. Bed? Covers? Sherlock's eyes flew open and he threw off the covers. Light was streaming through the windows and snow was falling softly outside. He was in his night cloths again.

"What the hell happened?" He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. Had it all been a dream? He got up and checked his cloths. Neither his shoes, coat, pants, nor shirt showed any sign that he had been out. Everything was exactly how he had left them.

"Ah, Sherlock! You're awake. Happy Christmas!"

"What time is it?"

"Seven thirty. Did you sleep well?"

"Don't play innocent. I was up all night. Waking up every hour, sound familiar?"

"Sherlock, what are you talking about?"

"You did a good job getting all that paint off your face. It doesn't even look red from all the scrubbing you must have had to do. And where did you get the chains?"

John just stared at him, totally bemused. "Did you go to bed drunk? No, never mind. Come on. Mrs. Hudson's made us Christmas breakfast." He walked out of the room. Sherlock stared after him. Maybe it _had_ been a dream. He shrugged it off for now. He would try to weasel something out of John later. He got dressed and walked into the living room.

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson called, rushing over to him and giving him a peck on the cheek.

"Happy Christmas, Mrs. Hudson. I see you've made quite a spread for us today."

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper. I'm just doing this for Christmas. Now eat up. I'm off to see my grandchildren." She rushed out of the flat.

"So I guess it's up to you and me to eat all this food," John said, looking down at the meal that was now on the table and picked up a biscuit.

"No. Just you. I'm off." He reached for his scarf, also right where he had left it.

"Where could you be going on Christmas morning? Everything is closed."

"Not everything." He smiled and walked out the door. John gave him a look but took a bit of his biscuit.

Sherlock took a cab to his mother's house and spent the day with her. He told her he wouldn't be able to come to dinner that night. He was spending Christmas dinner with his new flat mate but had felt like spending the day with his mum.

What he didn't say was that part of the reason he came was to find any clue of his previously being there. He couldn't find anything and his mother wasn't at all forthcoming. He loved that about her. If there was one thing the Holmes brothers had inherited from their mother it was her stubbornness.

On his way home he passed a man in a red suit. He stopped the cab and proceeded to place three pounds into the pot besides the man.

"Thank you, sir!" the Santa said, surprised. "H-happy Christmas!"

"Indeed," Sherlock replied and got back in the cab.

"You're back," John said as Sherlock walked in the door.

"A sound observation John, and just as obvious." He sat down I his chair.

"Where did you go?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Here and there."

John didn't quite believe it but he knew Sherlock wouldn't say anything. "There's a present for you under the tree, by the way." He disappeared back into the kitchen.

Sherlock went over and picked up the neatly wrapped package from under the tree and instantly knew what it was. Returning to his chair, he tore off the paper, opened the maple box, and took out the silver pocket watch. It was exactly the same one from before, the same engravings, the same make and model. The only difference was the back. Where Sherlock had suspected would be the place for another anagram or engraving. Instead of being blank, not it held the inscription: _'From JW'_. Sherlock smiled. He should have known John was the only one who would give him anything. And he probably wrapped it himself. The army tended to make one very neat.

Sherlock placed the fob through his button hole and the watch into his vest pocket where it nestled comfortably.

The program on the telly ended and the spokesman announced the next Christmas special.

"And now continuing our Christmas Classics Marathon is _'A Christmas Carol'_ with George C. Scott. Happy Christmas!"

At the moment Sherlock had nothing better to do so he just sat there and watched the show. About thirty minutes in Sherlock's jaw dropped and his eyes widened. Jacob Marely's ghost had just exited stage left.

"JOHN!"


End file.
